Once Upon A December
by ButteryflyFarie
Summary: At the start of the Russian Revolution, a young boy awoke with no memories of his past. Ten years later, he joins two conmen who convince him to pretend to be Prince James, the son of the last Russian Tsar. Based heavily on the movie Anastasia. Dean/Cas.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **Unfortunately, my little fangirl heart does not own Supernatural, Anastasia, or its respective characters. I am making absolutely no money out of this and, if I were, I can guarantee you I would feel a lot less guilty about posting this and ignoring my exam revision.

**Summary: **At the beginning of the Russian Revolution, a young boy awakes on a train station platform with no memories of who he is, the only clue being a chain around his neck that directs him to Paris. Ten years later, with a new name and a determination to find his family, Castiel meets a conman by the name of Dean Winchester who convinces him to pretend to be the long lost Prince James, the son of the last Russian Tsar, all the while avoiding an evil mystic named Lucifer who seems to be out for Castiel's blood. _Based heavily on the Fox movie 'Anastasia'. Castiel/Dean, Sam/Gabriel._

**AN: **I didn't really want to post this when I haven't really finished any other chapters yet, but I honestly wanted your opinion before I post any more. After a quick glance, I saw that there weren't many of the Anastasia inspired SPN fics around (and if they were, they were brief and unfinished). So I thought I'd add mine to the pile. WARNING: this is going to be long. Like, hella long. Longer than anything I've ever done before. Posts may be far and few between because my muse is flitting about like a yoyo at the minute, but I'm going to try my best. The wonderful **SameDestination **has agreed to beta this fic for me, so snaps and virtual cookies for her, guys! :D Any other mistakes that you find here are entirely my own.

Prologue

There was a time, not very long ago, when the people of Russia lived in an enchanted world. Work was easy to come by, families were fed and clothed with minimal fuss and, to those who could afford it, most nights were overflowing with grand parties inside elegant palaces.

The year was 1916 and Balthazar Novak, a tall man with a kind face and a firm hand, was the Tsar of Imperial Russia.

The night that our tale begins was the 300th anniversary of the Novaks' rule over Russia and, in celebration of the event, the palace of St. Petersburg was home to a majestic party. The Grand Hall was filled with the sound of music and joyful laughter and men, women and children alike had travelled from across the country to be a part of the commemoration.

Not a frown, nor a tear, nor a furrowed brow could be seen throughout the entire palace on this fateful night.

Michael Novak, the Dowager Emperor of the Novak family, entered the party fashionably late (as always). He settled gracefully onto the throne at the front of the Great Hall and his blue eyes searched through the crowd of dancers, finally settling on the figure of an eight year old boy dancing with his mother. A small smile crept onto the Dowager's aging face as he waved at the child.

The boy, James, was Michael's youngest grandson.

Once James had spotted his grandfather perched upon the throne, he stopped and returned the smile brightly. Giving his mother a peck on the cheek followed by a humble "Thank you for the dance, Mama," he ran towards the aging man with a piece of paper clutched tight in his hand.

"Grandpa, Grandpa!" he cried, almost tripping on the stairs in his haste to reach the Dowager Emperor. "Look! I drew you a picture!" He thrust the drawing into Michael's hand before he could object and crawled onto his lap without invitation. The child's body was shaking with excitement as he pointed to the colourful drawing. "See, it's Uriel! And he's sat on the foot stool that you brought back from your holiday to England! And look, I even shaded in his hair!"

"Yes, James, I can see that," Michael replied with a chuckle. James's joy was always catching and, even if he was in a terrible mood, mere moments with the young boy would always brighten his day. "Thank you very much."

"You're welcome, Grandpa," James replied, and his face suddenly turned glum. "I thought you could keep it with you when you return to Paris and that way you wouldn't forget about us and would want to come back quicker."

Michael gave a watery smile.

"I know you don't want me to leave, Jimmy, but you know that I must." James gave a small nod, eyes downcast. "But I have a present of my own to give you, if you wanted – oh, but no. You couldn't possibly want a present. What was I thinking?"

James's face brightened in seconds in the way that only a child's could, almost comical in the sudden change of disposition.

"A present? For me?"

He jumped down from Michael's knee and stood expectantly in front of his grandfather, hands twitching in anticipation.

Michael reached deep into the pocket of his suit before extracting James's present and holding it towards the child. James gasped in admiration, excitement shining in his eyes.

At the centre of Michael's palm sat a beautiful ornament, about the same size as James's fist. It was round and made of silver with intricate designs that had been etched into the metal with great care and attention. The ornament stood upright with the help of four feet in the shape of feathers reaching out from underneath and engraved on the top of globe was a majestic set of wings.

James's mouth opened in awe.

"For me?" he asked quietly. "Is it a trinket box?"

Michael shook his head. "Look," he replied and reached to his pocket one more time, extracting a silver necklace with a circular pendent. He brought the necklace to the ornament and slotted the two together at a secret opening hidden at the side before turning the necklace twice.

The wings at the top of the sphere opened outwards, acting as a cover to reveal the figure of an angel underneath. And as the angel started to turn and rise out of the centre, music began to play.

James's smile, if possible, grew bigger.

"It plays our lullaby!" he exclaimed.

Michael nodded.

"You can play it at night before you go to sleep and pretend that it's me singing to you."

James swayed with the music, holding desperately to his grandfather's hand. As the music reached its peak, Michael took a breath and began to sing.

"_On the wind, 'cross the sea, hear this song and remember...  
>Soon you'll be home with me, once upon a December..."<em>

James took an elegant bow as the angel returned to the confines of the music box and the lullaby came to a halt. He glanced up at his grandfather with a coy smile.

"There is one more thing, James," Michael whispered, as if what he was about to divulge was of utmost secrecy.

"There's more, Grandpa?" James asked, his eyes wide with adoration.

Michael handed over the silver necklace and gestured towards the pendant.

"Read what it says."

The pendant, a set of angel wings, in itself was rather small but the letters etched around the centre were clearly visible.

"'Together in Paris'..." James read before turning to his grandfather with unconcealed hope. "Really? Oh, Grandpa!" And with that, the young boy threw himself into Michael's arms.

But the two would never be together in Paris.

A dark shadow had descended upon the house of the Novak's, a shadow that brought nothing but fear.

His name was Lucifer.

Balthazar had once thought him to be a holy man, but he was nothing more than a fraud. He was obsessed with power and had wormed his way into the inner folds of the Novak family under the pretence of acting as a close friend, but this could not have been further from the truth.

The celebration was in full swing when Lucifer made his appearance. The crowd parted as he stepped into the hall, the dancers repelled by the callous look on his once pleasant face.

Balthazar met Lucifer at centre of the room, his often kind eyes hardening in anger. "How dare you return to the palace?" he spat.

Lucifer gave a sly smile. "But I am your confidant," he replied, arms gesturing outwards in mock innocence.

Balthazar scoffed.

"Confidant? You are nothing but a traitor! Remove yourself at once!"

The act was dropped instantly and Lucifer's face twisted into newfound rage.

"You think you can banish me? Oh, I beg to differ. By the holy powers vested in me, I banish you and your family with a curse. You and your children will die within the fortnight. Mark my words, Balthazar." He gave a twisted grin. "I shall not rest until I see the end of the Novak line forever."

With a simple flick of his hand, a stream of fire soared towards the regal chandelier at the roof of the hall. It fell to the floor with an earth shattering crash, plunging the room into darkness.

When the candles were lit and the guards were assembled, Lucifer was nowhere to be found.

Consumed by his hatred for Balthazar and the Novak family, Lucifer sold his soul for the power to destroy them and in doing so, opened the gates of Hell. And destroy them he did, with thousands upon thousands of demons set free from the fiery depths and all under his command.

From that moment on, the small spark of unhappiness in Russia grew into a flame that would destroy the lives of the Novaks forever.

Fourteen days following the fateful celebration, the mobs of enraged civilians crashed through the barriers of the Novak palace. Fires were started, windows were smashed and the Novak family, fearing for their lives, did the only thing they believed they could do. They fled.

But one little boy, grasping on to his grandfather's hand, stopped suddenly. He turned, running in the opposite direction.

"James!" Michael cried, racing after the boy.

"My music box!" James exclaimed. "I have to get my music box!"

He ran to his bedroom and dived underneath his bed, grabbing a hold of a wooden chest. He searched desperately, bypassing drawings and toys and pieces of candy, before a glint of silver caught his eye. He grasped it desperately in his hand before running towards his grandfather.

Michael had followed James into the room and had thrown the door shut behind him, leaning against the wood with a heaving chest. But the sounds of the guards were coming closer and the smell of smoke was getting stronger with every second. Knowing that this would be the end, he clutched at James with all of his strength.

"Come on! This way! Out the servant's quarters!"

A small hand tugged at his sleeve and, with a start, Michael turned towards the young voice. A small boy, only a couple of years older than James, with a freckled face and short brown hair was tugging him incessantly towards a small opening in the wall. An opening that had definitely not been there only seconds before.

Without a second thought, Michael pushed his grandson towards the wall. "Hurry, Jimmy!"

The two squeezed into the opening as quickly as they could and Michael could only hope that James and the boy, the young boy who saved their lives, would follow behind.

But in the desperation of finding an exit, the silver music box fell to the floor with a clunk and James immediately stopped.

"My music box!" he cried, turning to find it.

"There's no time!" the boy exclaimed, green eyes wide with fear. "They'll find you! You have to go! Go!"

No sooner had the secret passage slid closed did three guards burst into the room, guns pointed at the boy stood protectively in front of the wall.

"Where are they, boy?" one asked in a gruff voice. The boy wasted no time in retaliating, grabbing the first thing he could see (a small candle holder) and throwing it at the guard.

"I don't have the patience for this," another guard growled before reaching forward and slamming the butt of his gun to the base of the boy's neck. He fell to the floor unconscious, his left hand mere inches away from a strange silver ornament etched with feathers and wings.

Outside, in the night air, snow was beginning to fall with vigour. With the palace in the distance, Michael and James were running as quickly as they could.

"Keep up with me, James!" Michael called, tugging desperately on his grandson's hand as he stumbled through the snow. "Don't look back!"

The full moon was momentarily blocked as they passed underneath a low bridge that allowed passage over a now frozen lake. And, with a cry of fury, a heavy body collided with James's.

At James's cry, Michael turned and his eyes widened. "Lucifer!"

"Let me go! Please!" James yelled, desperately trying to pull his foot free from Lucifer's vice-like grasp.

"You'll never escape me, child!" Lucifer grinned. "Never."

But, as the tears streamed down James's cheeks and Michael frantically tried to pull him to safety, the ice under Lucifer's body began to crack. As he fell inch by inch into the icy depths below, he tried desperately to reach safety. But the more he struggled, the more the ice fell away. With a strangled cry, he slipped beneath the water.

Finally free, James and Michael didn't give a parting glance as they continued to run towards their safety with the morning sun starting to ascend over the horizon.

No one seemed to notice a small, black bat land at the edge of the broken ice, watching as Lucifer's fingers fell beneath the water.

And no one seemed to hear the gentle exclamation of "Oh, bugger," that followed.

By the time Michael and James had reached the train station, the sun had begun to cast a gentle glow and the train they needed had already blown the warning whistle.

"James, hurry!" Michael cried as the train began to pick up speed. He gave a cry of relief as he was pulled on board by the passengers before turning towards James. The boy was running with all of his strength, arms outstretched towards his grandfather and unshed tears in his deep blue eyes.

"Here, take my hand!" Michael reached forward as far as he could, trying desperately to grab hold of James. "Hold on to my hand!"

Their fingers brushed and Michael held on with all of his strength, watching as James's mouth formed the whispered words of, "Don't let go."

But, with a sudden scream as he tripped on the station platform, James was wrenched from Michael's hands. He watched with panic stricken eyes as the boy fell to floor, unmoving. He tried desperately to jump from the now rapidly moving train but the other passengers (the selfish passengers, could they not see that James needed him?) pulled him away from the edge. He fell to the floor, desperate sobs racking his body, as he realised that there was no way, no possible way, that he could see James again.

On the train station platform, a small boy lay. A thin layer of snow had settled over his clothes and a small pool of blood had spread underneath his dark hair. Once he awoke, surrounded by worried passengers and disgruntled guards, he wouldn't remember a thing.


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Unfortunately, my little fangirl heart does not own Supernatural, Anastasia, or its respective characters. I am making absolutely no money out of this and, if I were, I can guarantee you I would feel a lot less guilty about posting this and ignoring my exam revision.

**Summary: **Sam and Dean Winchester take the first step in their plan to finding Prince James and finally putting their names in the history books. Meanwhile, Castiel says goodbye to the orphanage for the last time.

**AN: **Well, here's the first chapter. It's not particularly long because not much happens in the first few scenes of Anastasia, but once things start picking up the length should increase. So, stay tuned! I don't pretend to know anything about Russia after the Revolution, so if I take some liberties then please be kind. And no, our main characters haven't met just yet. That should be about... chapter three, maybe? So (again), stay tuned! Drop me a review if you can, I'd be very grateful. Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter, I really appreciate it! This one's for you! I hope to get the next chapter out by the end of the week, so wish me luck. I hope you enjoy, and without further ado, here's chapter one. Thanks again to the wonderful **SameDestination** who beta'd this chapter!

Chapter One – There's a Rumour in St. Petersburg.

"_Have you heard there's a rumour in St. Petersburg?  
>Have you heard what they're saying on the street?"<em>

"Thank you, Miss Jo, Miss Ellen. It's been a pleasure doing business."

Ellen Harvelle, a short and stocky woman with a thick accent and a warm disposition, raised an eyebrow at the tall, young man crowding her stage. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. You owe me, boy."

With a firm handshake and a cheerful grin, Sam Winchester left the theatre in high spirits. He had had to call in a favour or two, but renting out a theatre for the night was crucial to their plans.

Thankfully, Ellen was an old friend and it hadn't taken much persuasion for them to reach a deal on the matter. Ellen and her daughter, Joanna Beth, had inherited the theatre after Ellen's husband passed away almost ten years ago. She made a living out of renting the stage to whoever required it, whether it be musical productions or (in Sam's case) illegal auditions.

Of course, Sam's pocket was a lot lighter leaving the theatre than it was when he woke that morning, but that was to be expected and he didn't blame Ellen for getting every kopek she could out of him. Thanks to the Revolution everything had a price, even between friends.

Naturally, the only thing that was free was gossip - and how plentiful that gossip seemed to be.

The whispers and mutterings hit Sam as soon as he closed the theatre door behind him, the people on the streets swarming around in small groups with their heads bent close together.

A larger group was forming across the street from where Sam was stood and the young man felt a smile tug at his lips as he saw Ash Lindberg at the centre, newspaper in hand. Ash was a spirited young man in his mid twenties, known throughout the town for his strange hairstyles and extensive knowledge on anything and everything. He managed to scrape by through the selling of a daily newspaper, but was more often than not found sleeping at the back of the Harvelles' theatre.

Sam stepped forward towards the growing crowd, swiping an apple from a nearby vendor who was too immersed in the gossip to pay attention to his stall.

"That's right, folks," Ash announced, making sure to keep his voice at a reasonable level. "On the fateful night, ten years ago, the Tsar, Balthazar Novak, and his family did not survive the vicious murders bestowed upon them. But it has come to my attention that his son, the one Prince James, may still be alive and wandering the streets among you fine people.

"But don't take my word for it, ladies and gentlemen!" He brandished the newspaper in his hand, holding it forward for the crowd to see the image of Prince James on the cover. "Just five kopeks and you can find out for yourself just how far the Dowager Emperor is willing to go to see his grandson again. Five kopeks, my friends, just five..."

Ash trailed off as a guard astride his horse wandered close to the growing group, eyeing him carefully. He swallowed visibly before smiling brightly once more. "On second thought..."

The crowd dispersed quickly after that and, smiling slyly, Sam followed their example.

He strolled down the cobbled street with a spring in his step, coming to a stop outside of a chipped wooden door. He knocked three times in quick succession and the door was opened immediately.

"Hi, Chuck."

"Hiya, Sam."

The man who owned the store, Chuck Shurley, was a short and nervous looking man with an alcohol problem but Sam had a grudging respect for him. His business had been in trouble ever since the start of the revolution but he had held on tight for the sake of his wife, Becky. He sold books (however far and few between these sales were) and was even in the middle of writing his own set of novels in hopes of gaining a few more roubles. Sam made sure to buy a book or two from him whenever he had the spare cash.

"How's business?" Sam asked, pretending to admire books while walking quickly to the back of the shop. Another reason he liked the store so much (not that he'd ever tell Chuck this) was because it opened up onto the street behind, knocking twenty minutes or so off of his journey.

"Oh, you know. It's been better. Everyone's too obsessed with this Novak thing to be interested in buying books." He stopped and turned towards Sam with a twinkle in his eye that had been present in every gossiping person in town. "Have you heard about that, by the way? Apparently Prince James, Tsar Balthazar's son, might still be alive."

Sam felt the smile tug at his lips despite his best efforts to quench it.

"Really? You don't say?"

He quickly said his goodbyes before running up the steps towards the market place, promising to come back soon to have a look at the draft of the new thriller novel that Chuck had been working on ("...about two brothers who fight evil things and Sam you'll just love it, I promise, you'll absolutely love it!").

He had almost reached the top when,

"Sammy!"

"Dean! Where've you been?"

"Y'know..." his brother gave a flirtatious wink at a passing woman (who was dressed far too skimpily to say it was mid-winter and snowing). "...Around."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Come on, let's go. I'm freezing my ass off."

The quickest way back to their place of residence (not to be confused with their 'home', mind) was through the marketplace. This would have been fine if Dean, the oldest of the Winchester brothers by just over four years, didn't have a habit of buying everything he could get his hands on.

Walking into the market was like walking into a wall of noise, yelling and shouting hitting them from all directions.

"How about this painting, folks? Straight from the palace! Only a rouble, one rouble, come on folks!"

"Count Raphael's pyjamas, ladies and gentlemen, two for one guaranteed!"

The bright red onesie attracted Dean's attention immediately and Sam sighed in defeat before pulling on his brother's arm.

"C'mon, Dean, Prince James won't want pyjamas."

"Yeah, but..."

"No buts. Come on."

They dodged their way through the marketplace and (though Sam had to sidestep a call of, "Mr. Winchester! This jacket, sir, lined with real fur it is!") made it to the tattered curtain that covered the entrance to their hovel in record time.

Although the curtain itself was moth-eaten and frayed around the edges, it did the job of blocking the cluttered room beyond it from public view. Though, protection from the bitter cold was not one of its strong points.

Stepping into the room, Sam and Dean wasted no time in dodging through the junk scattered across the floor (worthless things that were already there when they had found the place) and making their way to the set of stairs that led to the single room on the top floor.

"C'mon, Sammy, give me some good news," Dean panted as they shook the melting snow from their jackets.

"Well..." Sam paused dramatically and gave a smirk when Dean looked back at him, eyebrow raised. "I got us the theatre."

"Yes!" Dean exclaimed as they reached the top of the stairs. The top floor was just as cluttered as the bottom, but they had found that this acted as a great hiding spot for their personal things. They placed their belongings (clothes, spare cash, pictures of their parents and the like) amidst the junk, hiding them in plain sight and protecting them from being found from random travellers who stumbled upon the room.

"Everything's going according to plan," Dean continued. "All we need is the guy. Just think, Sam. No more fake papers, no more stolen goods. We'll have three tickets on a one way trip to Paris; one for you, one for me and one for Prince James."

Sam leant against the wall, arms folded with a small smile on his face. There was no point in interrupting Dean when he was on a roll like this. His brother at that point was leaning out of the window, staring down at the streets of St. Petersburg below. The snow had tapered off and a soft blanket had been left in its wake. Not that he'd ever admit it, but Dean might miss St. Petersburg just a little bit (but only because of the view, mind, only ever because of the view).

"Y'know, Sammy, we're gonna go down in history; you and me." He was staring wistfully out to the horizon, not sure if Sam was listening and not really caring in the same second. "All we have to do is find the guy and teach him what to say. We'll find him a nice suit or two because God forbid the grandson of the Dowager Emperor should be dressed like a pauper. And then we'll take him to Paris and his Grandpa will be so thankful to see him that he'll just have to give us a huge reward for our hard work and selflessness."

"Yeah, selflessness, that's what it is," Sam snorted. "Have you arranged time for us to pack at all during this plan of yours?"

Dean retreated from the window and turned to his little brother, grabbing an empty bag and throwing it at him in the process. "Fine, we'll pack, bitch."

Sam caught the bag without a blink. "Jerk."

Silence settled on them while they grabbed everything they could comfortably carry and shoved them unceremoniously into their luggage.

But Dean couldn't handle the silence for long, brain running wild at the prospects of their whole lives finally changing for the better.

"We'll be rich, Sammy," he said, stopping short as he attempted to shove a spare shirt into the bag in his hand.

Sam stopped too, standing up straight from where he had been trying to reach a shoe that had fallen behind a particularly large pile of junk. His eyes widened and Dean could almost see him thinking of the number of books he could buy. "We'll be rich," Sam echoed. "And we'll be out of this hell hole." He gestured vaguely to the room and the numerous piles of objects that didn't belong to them.

"We'll be out of this hell hole," Dean repeated. "And you know what they say about Paris." He raised his eyebrows suggestively. "The city of love."

Sam rolled his eyes before turning back to the loose shoe. Not ten minutes later, he was zipping up his bag and turning towards his brother. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah, just a second."

Dean's bag was full to the brim, but he had one more thing to grab before they could start their journey. It was vital to their plans. He reached into a rickety cupboard on the far wall and moved a strategically placed broken cup and saucer to one side. Behind it stood a silver ornament.

It was small and slightly scratched from being carted around from place to place for near on ten years, but it still shone in the midday sun and Dean's breath still caught in his throat every time he saw it. He assumed it was a trinket box, though he had never been able to open it. All he knew, was that it belonged to Prince James and one look at it would mean that he and Sammy could have the life they deserved.

But as well as being their ticket to a better life, it was still a constant reminder. It reminded him of where he and Sam had come from, reminded him of what he had lost, of the dull throbbing in his head that he couldn't help but feel even now though he knew that the injury that he had been given that night had faded after just a week.

He held the silver ornament tight in his hand for a second, eyes clenched shut as his thumb rubbed over the smooth surface. And then he shoved it into his pocket and turned towards his brother, a tight smile on his face. "Yeah, Sam. We're ready."

A few miles outside of the outskirts of St. Petersburg sat an orphanage. It was small, especially considering the number of children living there, but the orphans were happy (well, as happy as they could be considering the circumstances).

At the same time as Sam and Dean Winchester were boarding a tram to take them to their hired theatre, a middle-aged (and slightly obese) woman was herding a young man towards the gates of the orphanage.

The woman, Meg Masters, had the appearance of someone who had been beautiful in youth though the years had obviously not been good to her. Her blonde hair was lank, her skin covered in liver spots and she was talking animatedly, voice screeching, at the trench coat clad boy in front of her. Though this didn't do much good as he was too busy waving joyously at the multiple children leaning out of the top floor windows.

"I've found your rotten arse a job at the fish factory in town. Follow the path until you get to the fork in the road. Go left-"

"Goodbye! Goodbye, everyone!"

"Are you even listening, boy?"

He stopped, turning his gaze to her sheepishly.

"I apologise, Miss Masters."

She scowled at him, overgrown eyebrows furrowed, before grabbing a hold of his trench coat sleeve and dragging him towards the locked gate.

"You've been nothing but a thorn in my side since the day you were brought here. Always acting like an angel to the other carers when I knew the truth. 'Castiel', they called you. 'After the angel of Thursday because we were _blessed_ to find you on a Thursday'. But I saw right through you and your little act. For the last ten years, I've fed you and I've clothed you and –"

"You've kept a roof over my head?" Castiel asked sharply.

Meg stopped, turning towards him again with an evil glint in her eye.

"How is it that you can remember all of that but you don't have a single clue to who you were before the guards dragged you here, kicking and screaming?"

"But I do have a clue..." He trailed off, grasping almost involuntarily at the chain around his neck.

Before he could get a firm hold of it, however, Meg snatched it from his grasp. "Oh, yes. Your precious necklace. 'Together in Paris'. How sweet. So you want to go to France to find your little family, right?" She smiled sweetly before throwing her head back in a harsh laugh. "You've got to be kidding me. No wonder they named you after an angel – you've always got your head in the clouds."

As they reached the end of the garden, she quickly unlocked the gate before pushing him forcefully to the other side. "You do know that they're all probably dead, right?" she asked rhetorically. "And if they're not, they wouldn't want you anyway. Why else would they leave you stranded on a train station platform? It's time to take your place in life, Castiel. In life and in line behind everyone else where you belong – and you should be grateful too."

She took her time in relocking the gate, still staring at him with a false smile on her lips. Castiel could only listen, couldn't seem to move – it was as if he was entranced, as if he was watching a particularly gruesome accident but couldn't seem to look away.

"You should be grateful that we gave you a room in the first place. You should be grateful that I went out of my way to find you a stupid little job. You should be grateful that we kept you for ten years rather than throwing you out the night you came." She trailed off as the lock slid into place before turning with a spring in her step and walking back towards the orphanage. She waved a hand vaguely behind her before calling in a mocking voice, "'Together in Paris'!"

Her cynical laugh echoed long after the orphanage door had shut behind her.

**AN: **Well, there it is. I hope you enjoyed and drop me a review (even if you didn't!). Constructive criticism is always welcome. Thanks again! See you at the end of the week.


	3. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Unfortunately, my little fangirl heart does not own Supernatural, Anastasia, or its respective characters. I am making absolutely no money out of this and, if I were, I can guarantee you I would feel a lot less guilty about posting this and ignoring my exam revision.

**Summary: **Castiel finally takes his first steps as a free man while Sam and Dean start the interviewing process to find the ideal Prince James.

**AN: **And here's the second chapter, my lovelies! I honestly can't apologise enough for how long it's taken me to get this meagre chapter out, but exams are kicking my arse at the minute. I apologise in advance for the amount of time the next chapter is probably going to take, so I won't blame you at all if you decide you don't want to stick around. However, if you do, I would be eternally grateful. Stay tuned for the meeting of the main characters (next chapter, guys!) and I would love you forever if you could drop me a quick review. Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter, I appreciate every single one! Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy.  
>Thanks again to <strong>SameDestination<strong> for beta'ing this chapter! Any mistakes that you find are purely my own.

Chapter Two – Journey to the Past.

"_People always say, 'life is full of choices,'  
>No one ever mentions 'fear'."<em>

Castiel remained stood outside of the locked gate for longer than he cared to admit, trench coat blowing in the bitter breeze. He and Miss Masters had never really seen eye to eye and this wasn't the first time she had said these things to him, but – for some reason – this time the words had left him feeling empty and drained.

What if she was right? What if his family were dead? What if he was actually alone? And worse, what if they were alive and just didn't want him? What if they purposefully left him on the train station platform that night ten years ago?

Deep down, he had always wondered these things; they were always there, scratching at the back of his mind. But before that point (before he was stood outside of the orphanage with the snow falling around him and his toes slowly becoming numb from the cold), it had never really been real. The answers were never something he had to take into consideration because they wouldn't affect him – he would still have the orphanage and the other children if, when it came down to it, his family didn't want him after all.

But now it was different. Now he was alone and now the answers to the ever present questions could change everything.

After shaking his head, as if to physically remove the thoughts from swirling around inside his brain, he turned his back on the orphanage and started the long walk towards the fork in the road.

The further away from the orphanage he walked, the more annoyance and anger replaced the emptiness he was feeling.

"'Be grateful, Castiel'," he mocked, kicking snow along the path. "'Be grateful'. Oh, I _am_ grateful. Grateful to get away from you and your extreme body odour."

The orphanage itself was found on the outskirts of a small village located just outside of St. Petersburg and the walk towards the fork in the road – the turning point that would direct him to the centre of the village – would take him at least thirty minutes (or longer, depending on how many distracting things he found on the way). But he had made the journey many times before; being one of the oldest children at the orphanage, the carers had often sent him to the village to buy groceries and to visit the seamstress to mend the grubby clothes that had been donated to them.

Granted, he enjoyed the walk a lot more when the sun was beating down on him in the middle of summer, but there was something about the snow that he found quite refreshing. So when the signpost at the end of the long path finally came into view (after almost an hour of walking, thanks to the snow angels he made on the way and that one snowman that was, quite frankly, a masterpiece), he found himself almost disappointed that his journey was coming to an end.

The rotting pole was stationed in the middle of the path with two wooden arrows protruding from either side. The one pointing right was labelled 'St. Petersburg', with the left reading 'Village'. It seemed the closer Castiel walked towards the post, the slower and smaller his steps seemed to become. The mere sight of the sign was enough to awaken the anger that Miss Masters' words had caused inside of him and at once his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.

"'Go left,' she told me." He scoffed, his breath forming a cloud of white in the harsh winter air. He stood in front of the left-pointing arrow and glared up at it, as if it was the cause of all of his problems. "Well, I know what will await me if I go left. I'll be '_Castiel the orphan'_ forever, working for less than minimal pay and gutting fish for a living." His nose wrinkled at the mere thought. And then his eyes glanced over to the arrow pointing to the right.

The arrow was hanging precariously from the pole, swinging slightly from side to side in the breeze. The weatherworn wood had caused the sign to read 'St. Petrbug' rather than Petersburg, but to Castiel it had never seemed more appealing. It was a beacon of hope, a way out of this mess. He couldn't help the smile that crept onto his lips.

"But if I go right...?"

He shuffled cautiously in the opposite direction to the village but after only a few steps, he slowed before finally stopping with a troubled look settling on his face. The reality of the situation had hit him head on – what was he thinking? _Was_ he thinking?

He grasped at the jewellery hanging around his neck as he always did when he was anxious. It was beautiful and, if the amount of times people had tried to steal it was any indication, it was made from real silver. If had a circular pendant consisting of two angel wings hanging from the delicate chain. Each feather was carefully etched and at the centre was the inscribed message that Castiel had read more times than he could ever remember. "Together in Paris". He couldn't help but gaze at it fondly.

"Whoever gave me this must have loved me..." he quietly convinced himself. There was no way he could have just picked it up somewhere, not if it was made out of real silver. He ran a thumb over the words in the middle. "If I go to Paris, then maybe...?"

He stopped suddenly, releasing the necklace. It fell, abandoned, against his trench coat and glistened in the sunlight. "This is idiotic," he said, his words becoming louder and more forceful as his mind ran in circles. "Me? Go to Paris, of all places? I've never been further than the village my entire life, and now I plan on travelling across countries by myself?"

He looked towards the sky, eyes blinking rapidly against the falling snow, and threw his arms wide in surrender.

"Send me a sign!" he called desperately. "A hint!"

After several seconds of silence, Castiel fell to a small snow mound at the base of the sign in defeat. "Anything?" he questioned, almost involuntarily, before resting his head against the post and closing his eyes. He was so tired all of a sudden. Maybe if he just waited here for a while, maybe the answer would just come to him...

With his eyes closed, Castiel was none the wiser to what happened immediately after his outburst.

Behind him, buried beneath the snow for warmth and awoken from his slumber because of Castiel's shouts, a dog poked his nose out into the open air and gave an inquisitive sniff. Finding no immediate sign of danger, he slowly began to work his way into the open (head first, then greying body and finally his gently swaying tail). He wasn't a puppy, hadn't been for a long time, though his actions were lively and agile. A smattering of speckled fur around his mouth made him appear to have a permanent five o' clock shadow and furrowed brows made him appear constantly irritated.

The dog's eyesight wasn't what it used to be, but the slumped figure in the funny coat seemed... alright. Strange looking, maybe, and definitely smelt a little peculiar, but he prided himself on being an excellent judge of character.

The dog gave a huff, his warm breath casting a cloud of white into the air. But the man, absorbed in his own world, didn't even move. The dog rolled his eyes beneath the furrowed brows, becoming impatient rather quickly. A quick, gruff bark was enough to rouse the man from his apparent musings and the dog was quickly enamoured with the strange coat covering his shoulders. It was a funny, beige colour and was just long enough for him to reach up and latch his teeth onto...

Castiel was pulled from his thoughts rather quickly when a small animal (greying and quite vicious, if its attack on his coat was anything to go by). The animal – a dog, Castiel realised as he was pulled to his feet – began to tug and snarl his way, coat still grasped firmly in his teeth, down the path that branched to the right.

"Excuse me," Castiel began, as polite as he could be whilst trying to tug his coat from the dog's clutches. "May I have my coat back please?" If Castiel wasn't mistaken, he could have sworn he heard the dog chuckle. "I have no time to humour you with silly games," he continued, starting to become quite annoyed with the troublesome mutt. "I am waiting for a sign."

The dog began to pull on the coat with a renewed vigour, tugging Castiel in circles before pulling him further down the path.

"Would you please leave me alone?"

A particularly brutal tug forced Castiel to trip over his own feet and he landed (quite harshly) onto the cold, wet ground. The dog stopped tugging on the coat when Castiel fell, though the material was still clenched in its jaws. His tail starting to wag, almost as if he was enjoying the torture he was putting the man through.

It was only at this moment (when he was laying in the melting snow and glaring at the dog with malicious contempt) that Castiel realised where he was.

"How wonderful," he said dryly. "A dog wants me to go to St. Petersburg."

As the words left his mouth (and the dog began to stare back at him in apparent disbelief) he felt his eyes widen.

"Okay..." he mumbled to himself as he began to stumble to his feet, pulling his coat from the dog's clutches as he did so. "I suppose that is as big of a hint as I'm going to get."

And as the greying canine continued to stare, Castiel had the sudden feeling that the dog thought he was an idiot. He gave a shy smile. "A little slow on the uptake, aren't I?" he asked the dog, but ignored him when he was rewarded with an affirmative bark.

Brushing off the wet snow from his coat (and making sure it was fastened securely around him this time), he gave one last glance to the neglected sign before walking determinedly along the path.

But not without turning back to gesture to the dog with a nod of his head and hiding a secret smile when the animal gave a joyous bark and ran to follow.

A few short miles away in the middle of a run-down theatre at the centre of St. Petersburg, two young men were sat behind a rickety desk, staring at the stage with identical looks of horror on their faces.

On the stage, apparently unaware of his affect on the brothers, an elderly man continued to rant in stunted Russian.

"-and I look like royalty. One look and Dowager Emperor will be sure I am lost Prince..."

Sam snorted, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands in exasperation – he had finally lost it, he thought, as a hysterical giggle built in his throat. The man on the stage, Vladimir something-or-other, continued on oblivious.

"Isn't he the same age as the Dowager Emperor, give or take?"

Dean didn't reply, simply grasped the pencil in his hand with more force than was absolutely necessary and attacked the wrinkled paper in front of him.

The paper held a list of names, all of them claiming to be able to act the part of the long lost Prince James and all of them big fat duds, as was being proven by the infinite amount of auditions they had gone through that evening.

There were many names on the list (too many, a small voice at the back of Dean's mind whispered. They were bound to attract unwanted attention but they needed this, damnit, they needed this break). So many names, in fact, that the top of the parchment was trailing over the end of the desk and only one name, one lone name, was left at the bottom.

"...and I dance like feather..." the elderly man on the stage continued, before launching into a simple waltz that left him hunched forward in pain and cursing his bad back.

Dean cleared his throat before pasting on a strained smile.

"Thanks. Thank you. Uhm, next please?"

The elderly man, still clutching at his back, sent the brothers an affronted glare before turning his nose up the best he could and walking off stage. Dean gave himself a virtual pat on the back for keeping his temper. He didn't like to talk down to his elders (even if they were annoying and wasted his time and, seriously, when was the last time they had a bath?) but he was reaching the end of his tether.

"This is our last chance, Dean," Sam whispered frantically as the next volunteer walked on stage. When Dean looked over at his brother he found him glancing at the long list of crossed out names with a prominent frown between his eyebrows.

Dean understood the feeling – he was feeling pretty worried himself, but would rather die than let Sam know that (let him know that his plan, his brilliant plan, was going up in smoke in front of their eyes).

"C'mon, Sammy, lighten up. This guy's gonna be the real deal, just you wait."

His voice must have held more reassurance than he was feeling because when Sam looked up from the list and met his eyes, there was a small spark of hope there.

"Really?" he asked.

"Really."

He waited a second, searching for something in Dean's face. What he found there, whatever it was, must have been convincing. He gave a nod with a firm and secure smile before turning to the stage.

"Yes, sir, whenever you're ready."

The man on the stage cleared his throat dramatically.

And then he dropped the large fur coat that was hanging over his shoulders to reveal a particularly revealing outfit and a lit cigarette clutched between two yellowing fingers. When he spoke ("Grandpa, it's me, Prince James!") it was barely more than a rasp and a hacking cough interrupted him before he could continue.

Sam slumped forward and let his head fall to the desk in defeat.

Almost an hour later (after kicking out the last guy before he coughed a lung up on the stage, cleaning up the messes left behind by the disgruntled performers and making the last payment to Ellen and Jo) the two men stepped out into the bitter cold of the evening.

"I mean it, Dean," Sam stated firmly as his brother locked the door securely behind them. "That's it. Game over. I'm done."

Sam, for his part, felt completely and utterly devastated – he was sure that this scheme would be their big break. Sure, he'd always gone along with Dean's plans in the past and they never really amounted to much (but what choice did he have? He'd follow his brother to the ends of the earth if he had to). He had never really had faith in the conspiracies, knew they wouldn't work. Until now. For some reason he had a feeling that with this plan, this particular scheme, there was something to it.

But if the last three hours of auditions were anything to go by, apparently Sam had missed the memo on this one.

"Sammy..." Dean started, turning around to face him. Sam shook his head and interrupted him before he could start.

"No, Dean. That's our last kopeck gone, wasted on this flea-infested theatre, and we're still no closer to finding a guy to pretend to be Prince James. We should just give up now while we still have somewhere to sleep and clothes on our back."

"Don't let Ellen hear you say that about her theatre," Dean said with a smirk.

Sam scowled.

"That wasn't my point and you know it."

"I know, Sammy, I know. But we'll find him, I know we will. He's probably here right under our noses, just waiting for us to come along and sweep him off of his feet." At Sam's raised eyebrow, Dean coughed slightly. "Metaphorically speaking, of course. Oh, excuse me."

Stumbling slightly from bumping into a passerby, he hurried back to Sam who was eagerly walking ahead to find shelter from the biting cold.

"Of course, Dean, metaphorically speaking. But what makes you so sure? I mean, you were there with me in that theatre for the last three hours, right? And you saw the people that turned up to audition? Like that one guy with puppets. And the British guy who we couldn't understand. And the woman."

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Yes, Mr Positive, I was there. Look, I know it's not the best start. But we'll get there, okay?"

He shoved his hand into his pocket and clutched at the silver ornament that lay there. He had always kept it with him pretty much wherever he went. It was important to him, a symbol of everything, and for some reason it had always made him feel safe.

He rubbed a thumb over the etchings and instantly felt calmer.

It would be their ticket, the one thing that made them different to every other con artist in the world who had jumped at the opportunity to make a fortune. One look at the trinket box and the Emperor would think that the guy they had chosen to play the part was the real deal. And before he caught on, before he realised that the random stranger wasn't, in fact, his long lost grandson, Sam and Dean would be halfway across the country with ten million roubles.

It was a win-win situation. Nothing could go wrong. All they needed was the guy.

Still.

He wasn't going to lie (to himself anyway, he had no problem telling Sam a bluff or two) – he was slightly disappointed at the way the auditions had gone. He had expected there to be potential, someone with acting experience or at least someone who looked remotely like the Prince. Matching hair colour would be great, eye colour amazing. But no – instead they were left with a never-ending line of aging men who were each as convinced as the next that they were the perfect choice for the role.

And it was up to Dean (and Sam, though he would never, the pansy) to knock it into the performer's heads that they were wasting valuable time and kidding themselves if they ever thought in a million years that they would be able to be a part of the (amazingly fool-proof) scheme.

The walk to their new location was quite far, considering, but it was unbelievably worth it. They had found the place quite a while ago (a few years after the revolution when they literally had nowhere else to go) but they didn't have the balls or the cunning to pull it off. Now, though... Now they could.

They couldn't go back to their old place, the one hidden behind the curtain at the centre of town, not now they had packed their things and left. It was an unspoken rule between the two brothers that, after they had collected their belongings and moved on, they never went back to the same place twice.

So, they needed a new place. And considering what they were doing, what with the con and all, their new abode seemed... fitting, to say the least.

They reached the Novak Palace in around twenty minutes (the walk should have taken at least half an hour, but Sam was practically sprinting to get out of the cold) and slipped in through a small niche they had found all those years ago. It was a tight squeeze – they were older now, bigger than when they had first discovered the place – but they somehow managed it. And, with a relieved sigh as the bitter wind died away and the strong smell of dust and memories hit them, they settled down for the night.

They couldn't deny that it was one of the fancier places they had crashed in their lifetime and it was reassuring to pretend, at least to themselves, that for at least one night they could live like royalty.

**AN: **Well, there we are. Hope to hear from you in a review (hint hint nudge nudge) whether you liked the chapter or not – constructive criticism is always welcome! (I also apologise for the chapter length; hopefully my muse will return sometime soon and will let me splurge a few thousand words out for you lovelies).


	4. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Unfortunately, my little fangirl heart does not own Supernatural, Anastasia, or its respective characters. If this is something I have to come to terms with, then I'm afraid you do to!

**Summary: **Castiel meets Dean and Sam Winchester, two conmen who promise him a ticket to Paris if only he pretends to be the long lost Prince James.

**AN: **Hi everyone! Sorry again for the time it's taken for me to get this up. It's entirely my fault as **SamDestination**, my brand new beta, managed to beta this chapter for me extremely quickly. So thank you so, so, so much! I can never thank you enough. The next chapter should be up hopefully quicker than this one because exams are over (hallelujah!) and I have pretty much nothing else to do. Just a pre-warning that this chapter kicked my arse but I think it turned out okay in the end. I would be eternally grateful if you could drop me a review telling me what you enjoyed, what you didn't enjoy, what you had for breakfast, that sort of thing. Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter! You guys seriously put a great big smile on my face. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter Three – Once Upon a December

"_Far away, long ago, glowing dim as an ember;  
>things my heart used to know, things it yearns to remember."<em>

It was correct to assume that Castiel had never, as far as he could remember, travelled outside of St. Petersburg. As far as he could remember, he had never even travelled further than the village next to the orphanage.

So, it was also correct to assume that Castiel didn't know the first thing about travelling to Paris.

But, he did know one thing: his best course of action would be to take the train.

He didn't particularly know how to pay for his ticket (he was an penniless orphan, after all) and he didn't really know the correct etiquette involved in ordering tickets. What if there was some kind of system he needed to follow that he didn't know about? What if there were precise words he needed to use beyond, "one ticket to Paris, please," that he was oblivious to?

But that was all he knew and so that was what he went for.

"One ticket to Paris, please."

The clerk behind the wooden window was leaning on his hand in disinterest. He had dark skin and hair with the beginnings of a beard sweeping across his chin. The scratched name plate that lay haphazardly in front of him stated his name was 'Gordon Walker'. Gordon didn't even look to Castiel as he reached the front of the (unbelievably long and tedious) line.

"Exit visa?" he asked, holding a hand out expectantly.

Castiel pulled up short. Exit visa? What in the name of God's green earth was an 'exit visa'? This was it. This was the train station jargon he was so nervous about. He knew it was too good to be true – he knew that walking into a train station and expecting to get a (free) ticket from Russia to Paris without any fuss would be too much to ask for.

"...I don't have an exit visa," Castiel said, his voice becoming quieter as the clerk looked at him for the first time.

The clerk, Gordon, had a smile tugging at his lips. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement. He lived for these moments.

"Well, I'm terribly sorry but I'm afraid I won't be able to give you a ticket."

He didn't sound very sorry at all.

He gave the short laugh of a person who found interest in others' misfortune and pulled the wooden window closed despite the fact that there were several people waiting in the line behind Castiel. As Gordon disappeared from view with a snap when the window slid firmly shut, the crowd behind Castiel groaned in unison before spreading out to find another almost empty queue.

One person remained, stood directly behind Castiel and looking towards the closed window with an eyebrow raised in annoyance.

"How rude."

He was a lean and elderly man with thinning black hair and pale, wrinkled skin. He was covered from head to foot in a long black coat and wouldn't look out of place in a morgue or a funeral home (or a coffin, Castiel thought). When he spoke, his voice was tinged with a broad English accent hidden beneath layers of dry and sarcastic humour. As first impressions go, Castiel immediately felt weak and frail in comparison (which was definitely something given that it seemed a moderately strong wind could easily knock the gaunt figure over).

"I don't think that 'pleasant company' and 'willing to help' were features found in the job description," Castiel replied.

The man turned his gaze from the window to him and Castiel looked to his feet, suddenly feeling self-conscious under the watchful eye of the tall and aging man.

"No, I don't suppose they were." Giving Castiel one last glance, he turned to leave.

He had taken no more than three steps (in which Castiel breathed out deeply in relief) before he stopped and turned abruptly.

"If you want a ticket to Paris, you could always see Dean Winchester."

Castiel opened his mouth to speak, but the man was already talking again before he could even start to ask about this 'Dean Winchester' and why he just so happened to have a spare ticket to Paris.

"He's currently holed up at the old palace, about a ten minutes walk in that direction. But you didn't hear this information from me, understand?"

He was walking through the crowded station platform before Castiel could so much as nod in affirmation.

"It seems we're going to see Dean Winchester, then." Castiel looked towards the dog currently chewing on his shoe (who had dutifully followed Castiel's footsteps ever since poking his head out of the snow) and pulled free with a sharp tug. The dog looked to him in displeasure, but followed along with his tail wagging as Castiel walked towards the exit of the station.

After almost fifteen minutes, three sets of directions and almost falling face-first into a pile of snow after being bumped into by a guy who had little to no manners, Castiel finally found himself outside of the Old Grand Palace. It didn't seem particularly 'old' to Castiel, and it wasn't particularly 'grand' with the boarded-up windows but he could definitely see the charm of the palace buried beneath the snow and overgrown gardens.

The dog stepped cautiously beyond the palace gates with a tentative sniff, following as Castiel's barely clad feet made prints in the fresh white snow. The garden was so big it took almost five minutes to reach the stone steps that led to the (locked) main doorway of the palace itself and a further three minutes to effectively shake the snow from his hair, coat and shoes.

As Castiel looked towards his feet, after shaking free of the flakes, at some point in that time the dog had disappeared. He opened his mouth to yell but pulled up short as he noticed that the dog, who had followed closely behind him for almost the entire day, didn't actually have a name.

"...Dog?" Castiel asked, feeling vaguely ridiculous. "Where are you?"

An echoing bark came from inside the palace and a twitching nose appeared between two wooden boards that had been nailed to an empty doorway. Bending to look through the small gap, Castiel was graced with the image of the dog stood with a smug look and a shaking tail amongst a room filled with dust and spider webs.

Seeming to have no other choice Castiel grasped firmly at the rotten and decaying boards before giving a sharp tug.

With a crash and burst of pain as he hit the concrete blocks, the man and the boards fell gracelessly to the ground.

Inside the palace, two brothers were sitting comfortably in front of a raging fire. One brother, the eldest, was indulging himself with a large cup of coffee and an even larger piece of pie. The other was settled comfortably in a luxurious armchair, engrossed in the novel he held in his hands.

All of a sudden, Dean stopped mid-chew, turning to Sam with his eyes narrowed in contemplation.

"Did you hear that?" he asked. Sam gave a careless shrug, his eyes rapidly reading through the text in his book.

Dean threw a disgusted look towards his brother before rising to his feet to investigate.

Rubbing at the back of his head with one hand and pushing himself to his feet with the other, Castiel stared at the entrance to the palace with suspicion. But the dog seemed to find the newly uncovered room to be danger-free, and so he entered quickly in an attempt to find refuge from the bitter cold.

It seemed that the doorway led into a dining room of some sort and with each step a new cloud of dust erupted from the moth eaten carpet. Three long tables were arranged from one end of the room to the other. They were filled with empty plates, goblets and candle holders, each made from an array of gold and silver and encrusted with jewels and gems. Despite the thick layer of dust, they were still in surprisingly amazing condition.

Castiel vaguely wondered why they had been left to gather dust when it would have been simple to break into the palace and take them, pawn them off for a few kopeks apiece. Was it possible that the Novaks were respected so much that, even after their death, Russian people refused to steal from them solely because they were seen as a memory of a better time?

Holding a plate at eyelevel and wiping a hand along its surface, dust caught at Castiel's fingertips as a shiny exterior was revealed. He could easily see his reflection.

And yet, for a second...

Just for a second, Castiel could have sworn that his reflection had changed. His hair shorter and somewhat tamed, eyes less troubled and filled with laughter, that thin layer of stubble replaced with a smooth, youthful face that was chubby with happiness.

And then it was gone.

Castiel shook his head, placing the plate back onto the table and exiting the room without a backwards glance.

As he entered the second room, he came to abrupt halt. He had never seen such a majestic room in his entire life.

The floor was made of marble and a small set of steps led to a raised dais where three throne-like chairs were placed side by side. At the opposite end of the room, another set of stairs led to a balcony which overlooked the entire room. It was otherwise empty but the windows were filled with colourful glass that depicted a story of dancing couples and elegant clothes.

He couldn't help but walk to the centre of the room in hopes of taking in every little detail.

And then there was the feeling at the back of his mind, the gentle niggling that there was something he was missing.

Castiel looked towards the dog who had come to a stop beside him, glancing up with inquisitive eyes.

"I know it's strange," Castiel uttered gently. "But this place... everything just feels so familiar."

"Hey! What're you doing here?"

Castiel gave a start, his eyes rising rapidly to look towards the platform at the opposite end of the room. Two men, tall and quite muscular, were stood in front of an open door, the glow of a dying fire casting them in golden light. He could sense the distrust from them already and did the only thing he knew how to – he ran. He wasn't particularly looking forward to what those muscles would do to him if they caught him in the midst of trespassing.

Atop the balcony, overlooking the hall, the brothers could see the man's eyes widen as Dean shouted down at him. As he turned to run in the opposite direction, Sam shot his sibling a look of mock admiration.

"Well done, Dean," he said sarcastically. "No, really, you've outdone yourself."

With a quick, "Shut up, Sam," Dean began to sprint down the steps that led to the ground floor in hot pursuit of the trespasser (Dean mentally snorted; he was hardly one to criticise a trespasser, it wasn't as if he and Sam were formally invited to stay at the palace).

Up on the balcony, Sam sighed in exasperation before following his brother at a slow and leisurely pace.

"Hey, wait! Stop! Hold on a minute, would you?" Dean yelled, panting harshly.

Dean finally caught up to the young man as he reached the top of the small set of stairs leading to the raised dais where the Tsar and his family use to sit. Finally sensing that he wouldn't get away no matter how hard he tried, the man stopped and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Dean stumbled to a halt halfway up the set of steps, leaning forward and placing his hands on his knees as he took in deep breaths of sweet oxygen. "Now," he started. "How did you get in... here...?"

He trailed off as his gaze locked with the deep blue eyes of their intruder. And in a second, he was lost. Unruly black hair, eyes bluer than a tropical sea, tall (but not overly), well built if a little thin... It was too good to be true; he _couldn't_ be what they were looking for.

But, even as Dean's mind began to doubt itself, (maybe he was hallucinating – he knew he shouldn't have eaten that two day old piece of pie they found a couple of hours ago) he caught sight of the old oil painting hung on the wall behind the stranger.

The painting itself had been done only a month or two before the start of the revolution. At the centre were Balthazar Novak and his wife, Anna, who was sat demurely on a straight backed chair. Around them were their four children; the oldest was Zachariah. He had one hand resting on the shoulder of his mother while the other brushed gently against the arm of his brother Uriel. The youngest child and the Novaks' only daughter, Rachel, was sitting primly on her mother's lap. And then there was the remaining child: James. He was stood in front of his father with a small smile etched onto his face. Both of Balthazar's hands were rested firmly on James' shoulders and the child seemed to be leaning back slightly into his father's embrace.

Even from a distance, Dean could see the resemblance.

Without noticing, Dean had been staring at the stranger for a good minute or so and the man had now taken on a defensive stature, raising his arms in question of just what was so fascinating, exactly?

But Dean was saved from replying as his brother strolled nonchalantly towards them.

"Excuse me, sir. How did -"

"Sammy," Dean interrupted with his hand raised. "Do you see what I see?"

Sam stared intensely at the stranger for several long seconds before slowly nodding his head in agreement. And then he stopped. "No, no I don't."

Dean gripped Sam's elbow tightly with one hand and pointed with the other. "Do _you _see..." He pointed to the young man. "...What _I_ see?" He then turned to point at the young Prince James, trapped forever in his youthful state inside the oil painting.

Sam's eyes suddenly widened dramatically in recognition. "I see it."

"I'm not being crazy here, right Sam? There's actually a connection?"

"No, Dean, you're right. The hair..." Sam murmured.

"The age," Dean replied.

"The eyes," they both stated together.

Yes, there was definitely something there.

A shrill bark caught their attention and their gazes were pulled downward to rest upon a small, greying dog.

Sam gave a girlish shriek of amazement.

"Who is this wonderful animal?"

"That's my dog," the young man replied. It was the first thing he had said since Sam and Dean had begun their staring competition with him atop the steps. His voice was deep and gruff, as if he made a living by smoking ten cigarettes a day and gargled gravel in between each one. "He doesn't have a name yet."

Sam bent his giant form and picked the dog up with one hand.

"Look at him!" Sam exclaimed with a cheerful smile. He turned the dog around so its whiskered face was in front of Dean's. "He looks just like Uncle Bobby!"

"Don't let Uncle Bobby hear you say that," Dean replied, but his retaliation went unheard as Sam suddenly seemed to have developed the understanding that the world started and ended with the dog in his hands. "You... have fun, Sasquatch." He patted Sam's arm as one might ruffle the hair of a small child.

"Are you Dean Winchester?"

Dean turned to face the young man once more – he had watched the brothers converse without saying a word, but he had apparently reached the end of his patience quota for the moment.

"That depends," Dean replied, walking up the few steps that separated him from the stranger. "...On who's looking for him."

"My name is Castiel," the young man stated. He leant forward slightly and his voice level dropped to almost more than a whisper. "I require travel papers, though I am unable to tell you who told me..."

He trailed off, his eyes following Dean as the Winchester circled him, looking at him from every possible angle.

"May I enquire as to why you are circling me? Your actions are extremely similar to that of a bird of prey."

Dean stopped and gave a small shake of his head. "Sorry, Casteel."

"_Castiel_."

"Castiel," Dean corrected. "You just look an awful lot like..." Dean gestured vaguely towards the painting, but the confused head tilt that was directed his way made him pause. "Never mind. You were saying something about travel papers?"

Castiel nodded once with determination. "Yes. I would like to go to Paris."

Dean couldn't help the splutter of disbelief that was wrenched from his lips. "You want to go to _Paris_?"

This was amazing. This was incredible. This was... too good to be true. There had to be a catch somewhere. It was the first thing Dean had learnt while he was fending for himself after the revolution: there was always a catch.

Dean turned to face Sam. He needed support in this, someone to back him up and let him know that this was actually happening and that maybe, just maybe, their luck was finally changing.

But Dean gave it up as a bad effort when all he could see was a small greying canine licking enthusiastically at Sam's face with a few feminine giggles thrown in for good measure.

It looked like Dean was by himself on this one.

"Let me ask you something... Castiel, right? Is there a last name I can throw on the end there?"

Castiel had the grace to look embarrassed and when he spoke his words were aimed towards his own worn shoes. "Well, I'm afraid... This is going to sound slightly bizarre, but I don't know my last name. I was discovered wandering around in the snow when I was only eight years old."

"And before then?" Dean pressed. "Before you were eight years old, what about –"

"Look," Castiel stated firmly. "I know it sounds strange, but I don't remember. I have very few memories of my past and almost none from before my ninth birthday."

"Hmm..." Dean mused under his breath. "That's... perfect."

"But I do have one clue," Castiel continued, oblivious. His hand reached automatically for his necklace. "And that clue is in Paris. So, can you assist me or am I wasting my time?"

"Well," Dean began with an almost sincere smile. "I sure would like to help." He gestured frantically behind him for his brother to hand him the tickets. "In fact, we're going to Paris ourselves, oddly enough."

Sam managed to extract himself from the dog for long enough to pull three train tickets from his jacket pocket and shove them into Dean's hands.

"I have three tickets," Dean said, holding them teasingly in front of Castiel's face. "There's one for me and one for my brother and..." He quickly pulled them away as Castiel made a failed attempt to grab them. "I'm afraid the third is for him." Dean pointed with his other hand to the painting. "Prince James."

Before he could reply, Sam had grabbed hold of Castiel's elbow and had begun to pull him in the opposite direction towards another small set of steps. "Our aim is to reunite the long lost Prince James with his grandfather, the only living member of his family."

"You do kind of resemble him," Dean mused, grabbing hold of Castiel's other side.

Sam gestured towards Castiel's face. "The same blue eyes."

"The Novak eyes," Dean elaborated.

"Balthazar's smile."

"Anna's chin."

"And, oh, look," Sam said with a whimsical sigh, grabbing hold of Castiel's wrist and bringing it close to inspect. "He even has his grandfather's hands!"

"He's the same age, the same physical type..."

"Hold on a second," Castiel announced, slamming his heels into the plush carpet and coming to a sudden halt. "Do you mean to say that you believe _I _am Prince James?"

"All I'm saying," Dean replied, turning around to face Castiel, "is that I've seen hundreds of people just today alone, and not one of them looks as much like the Grand Duke as you do. I mean, just look at the portrait!"

He threw his arm to gesture to the tall painting held to the wall beside them.

The canvas was obviously old and worn. The Dowager Emperor stood with his arm wrapped securely around a young Prince James who couldn't have been more than six years old.

Castiel turned from one brother to the next, not sparing a glance at the oil painting behind him.

"I had the impression that you were slightly deranged from the moment I met you," he directed at Dean before turning to Sam. "But, now I believe that you are both mad."

He turned on his heel and began to walk away.

Dean's eyes widened slightly with panic.

"Wait!" he called before stopping and clearing his throat. "Wait," he said again. "Why is it so much of a ridiculous idea?" He walked to follow Castiel, gesturing to Sam before grabbing the young man's arm once more. "You don't know what happened to you."

"And no one knows what happened to him," Sam chimed in, voice low and genuine.

"You're looking for your family in Paris."

"And his only family is _in Paris_."

The trio stopped and Dean turned Castiel to face him, staring directly into his eyes.

"Have you ever thought about the possibility? Just the possibility?"

Castiel couldn't help the scoff of disbelief that was wrenched from his lips.

"The possibility that I could be royalty?"

Dean and Sam both gave definitive nods of confirmation.

"I don't know. It's difficult to imagine that I could be a duke when I spend every night on a damp floor with a tattered blanket and fifteen other children..." He stopped, glancing for the first time to the oil painting of the young prince. "But I suppose it would be a comforting thought to think that I'm not entirely alone."

A small silence settled among them, Castiel's face still turned up to stare wistfully at the painting. Dean, rolling his eyes at the soft look settling on Sam's face, gave a none too discreet glance at his watch before leaving to walk back down the steps.

"And somewhere," Sam was saying gently, "your family could be waiting for you. And this could be your chance, your only chance."

Dean gave an exasperated huff before turning back to grab Sam's arm, pulling him away. His voice broke the serene calm that had settled over them.

"Like I said, we really wish we could help. But the third ticket is for the Grand Duke James. Good luck with your hunt!"

The brothers managed to make it to the long set of stairs before Sam turned to Dean in annoyance.

"Why didn't you tell him about our plan?" Sam asked in a hushed whisper, sharp and accusing.

"All he wants to do is go to Paris," Dean replied. "There's no reason to give away a third of the reward money when we don't have to."

"Well then, we're walking away too soon," Sam replied. "Maybe we should—"

"It's fine, Sammy, trust me. I've got it all under control. Just walk a little slower."

On the landing above them, still staring at the portrait, Castiel was confused. It was hard to stick to his conclusion when the two men gave such a good opposing argument. Could he be the lost Prince? He had as much of a chance as anyone, right?

With one hand fiddling with the necklace against his chest, the other lifted almost against his will to touch the folded bottoms of the Dowager Emperor's suit.

And in that second he had made his decision.

Dean held up three fingers, counting down quietly. "Three... two... one..."

"Dean!"

Sam's face lit up and Dean gave a fist punch of victory before composing himself, wiping his face of emotion, save the occasional twitching of his lips and a twinkle behind his green eyes.

"Dean, wait!"

He turned innocently to face Castiel as he appeared at the top of the staircase.

"Did you call me?"

"If I don't know my true identity then there's no evidence to prove that I'm not a prince, correct?"

Dean walked towards the stairs, holding a hand to his chin in mock contemplation.

"Hmm... Go on."

"And if it is discovered that I'm not Prince James then it's obvious that the Dowager Emperor will know and it will all be an honest mistake on our part."

The trio met at the bottom of the steps and Dean gave a nod of agreement.

"Sounds plausible."

"But if you are the prince," Sam chimed in, eyes shining with excitement. "Then you'll finally know who you are and have your family back!"

"Either way, it gets you to Paris."

Castiel gave a solid nod of agreement. "Right."

Gesturing to the empty hall, Dean gave a small bow. "May I present, ladies and gentlemen; His Royal Highness, the Grand Duke James!"

And Sam's laugh, bright and hopeful, echoed throughout the entire palace.


End file.
